Two Two One B
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: My first ever fanfiction so please be gentle! My own 221B series, and I hope it lives up to the many other, more original ones. All reviews, compliments, criticisms etc welcome!
1. Back

Back

"Are you alright Watson?" Holmes called over the scuffling noises of the fight.

"Fine, thank you Holmes!" I called back, dodging a powerful blow from my opponent. "You?" I returned his punch with a stunner of my own.

"Comme ci, com- mmph!" I ducked under a fist in time to see Holmes thrown into a wall. Hard. And there were still half a dozen of the gang we were fighting left to fight. Not good.

I didn't have time to make a plan, however, as the six men left standing quickly turned their attentions back to me, and very soon I was hard pressed to stay alive.

My world became that of flying punches, kicks and blood, plenty of it mine. I think I managed to down about three of them before someone succeeded in landing a lucky blow to my injured shoulder, followed up by a jab that broke my nose.

I landed heavily beside Holmes, some of the pain breaking its way through my army instilled defences. He blinked blearily, blood running down the right side of his face from a cut in his temple. I pushed myself back onto my feet, before placing myself in front of him and raising my fists.

"Next time," I heard him mumble before I re-entered the fray, "We fight back to back."


	2. Beautiful

Beautiful

"Holmes... Holmes, wake up!" I was awoken by a persistent voice, and a gentle tugging at my

shoulder.

"Mmm... Go away..." I mumbled, burrowing into the cocoon of warmth created by my covers.

"Holmes... Holmes..." the eager voice of my friend Watson did not abide by my wishes. If anything it became louder. "HOLMES! You have to come, quickly!"

I rolled over and forced my eyes open. "What's wrong?" He was wearing his dressing gown and the constant flickering and guttering of the candle in his hand told me the chilly draught wasn't just my imagination. His face was stretched in a gleeful grin.

"Holmes... it's _snowing._" Of course. Afghanistan, desert, three years. You hardly needed to be an analytical genius to figure this one out. I sighed.

"Alright I'll be there in a minute." I said and he left, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. From the dim light of the gaslight outside I could just make out the hands of my pocket watch. 5:15am.

A few moments later and Watson and I were peering out of window at the crystal flakes dancing outside.

"It's beautiful," he breathed looking at me. His face was full of pure wonder and childlike fascination, much as it was when I revealed to him one of my deductions.

"Yes," I agreed softly, "beautiful."


	3. Brighten

Brighten

Days like this are the worst. The days when rain lashes against the windows and lightning arcs across the sky. The days of tedium.

These are the days I hate. Days filled with nothing but crushing boredom, broken not even by the pettiest of cases, for who would walk, or even take a cab, just to report a crime that I probably wouldn't even begin to investigate until tomorrow, due to this foul weather?

Not even the cocaine helps now, because every time I consider taking it, my eyes are drawn back to the sweaty figure sprawled on the sofa, sunken eyelids twitching as he remembers battles from long ago. His fevered murmurs fill the room, unconsciously reprimanding me each time I feel myself reaching for the Moroccan case. I can't do it. I can't escape my boredom when I know that in his dreams Watson faces something indescribably worse. I tell myself that I am not such a coward.

And yet a few minutes later, he relaxes. His injured limbs untense as he shifts slightly beneath the covers, seeking a comfier position. I watch as he sinks into what will hopefully be a more peaceful sleep, empty of the shadows that linger in his slumbers, and I smile in spite of myself.

Outside the day has already begun to brighten.

**A/N **Thank you all of my reviewers! Anonymous or not please leave your thoughts. They make me happy... B-D


	4. Bullpup

Bullpup

The rooms at 221B are unusually silent. No violin, no explosions, no discussion of the latest case. Not even Mrs Hudson is there, having gone up North to visit her sister. And yet despite the quilted silence something still lingers in the air, the remnants of a recently fought argument, the heated words that passed from both participants' mouths.

Arguments between these two stubborn indivuals usually ended with one or the other storming out into whatever weather was waiting outside before heading to either the soothing comfort of a relaxed game of pool with Thurston at the gentleman's club, or the equally soothing, (if slightly less conventional) reclusiveness of the Diogenes Club. Both actions end with more or less the same result, awkward, though heartfelt, apologies, and overall forgiveness on both ends.

Today however, is different. _So why, _muses a befuddled Inspector Lestrade who came merely to ask Mr Holmes to fill in the last few details on what was considered the most trying case of the century, (despite Holmes' repeated assurances that it was _elementary_), _are they not here?_ All tell tale signs of an argument were, door unlocked, Stradivarius discarded, the Doctor's coat forgotten in the rush to leave.

The simple answer is this; they are both out, searching for the cause of the argument: the doctor's runaway bullpup.

**A/N** This is dedicated to Myelle White, who persuaded me to finally get a profile and who gave me this idea... despite her cool(io) brain momentarily jamming.


	5. Black

Black

I've never done it before, never had cause. Of course there was my brother's death, but Holmes and I had been engaged on a trying case and I had simply turned away from my grief, ignored it until a few months later when I went to visit his grave in Scotland, alone. This time however, I am not alone.

Mrs Hudson mourns the loss of a lodger as she would her own son. Lestrade, Gregson and the rest of the inspectors at Scotland Yard mourn the loss of a brilliant, analytical genius, able to draw the most extraordinary deduction from the tiniest and most deceptively trivial detail. Mycroft mourns the loss of a brother, whilst I mourn the loss of my dearest friend and the most brilliant man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

The entire world will soon be weeping, when the devastating news is finally spread, surely smeared across the front pages of all of the newspapers. I wonder whether they ever really cared for us, the fantastical characters in a detective series, whether they ever cared for him. No doubt I'll find out tomorrow, but I no longer care.

Because Sherlock Holmes is dead, and for the very first time in my life, I, and what seems like the entire world, will dress entirely in black.

**A/N** Wow and I actually had a really great day today. Please make it better by leaving a review. Criticisms are welcome. Thank you reviewers, particularly mrspencil.


	6. Bother

Bother

When I first met them I think I saw them for what they were. Mr Holmes, confident of what he wanted in life, determined not to let anyone get in his way, strong and independent. A little too independent, I think, for deep down I could see the part of him that craved someone to trust, a friend. He would never let it show of course, but it's looking back all these years later that I realise I was right.

Then there was Doctor Watson, a soldier, recently returned from Afghanistan, a lost soul unsure of what his purpose was. He kept his back straight despite his weakness and I knew it wasn't so much the physical wounds that crippled him, but the mental ones, of shame and guilt, the inability to heal. He too, attempted to conceal this. But they could hide nothing from me.

Injuries, experiments, the Irregulars, I encountered them all. I believe that in one of his stories the Doctor referred to me as "a longsuffering woman" and I suppose it is true. But it was worth it, to be with them, to watch them grow as I would my sons.

As I lay here in my final moments, both Mr Holmes and the Doctor's eyes brimming, I realise that it truly was worth all the bother.

**A/N** This is another sad one, but with a bit more happiness sprinkled in between. Thanks to all of my reviewers. Um, Mrs Pencil, I have an admission to make. Not pressing the review button doesn't cause the computer to explode. I know, I know, I was the true conspirator after all... Shocking huh?

You know you want to. Come on. Click that button. Type those comments. Think of what could happen if you don't... *Nothing happens* Yes well... something _could _have happened. *Readers raise eyebrows* Well I wouldn't have to write these stupid author's notes if you guys all reviewed!


	7. Bowler

Bowler

"Do you like it?"

"Well it's... certainly something..."

"So you don't like it?"

"Of course I like it, Watson, I just meant to say that... well it's rather _unusual..._"

"Precisely why I bought it for you! Now come on, Holmes, aren't you going to try it on?"

"I don't know..."

"Why ever not?"

"Well, it must have cost you rather a lot, and something like this should only be worn for special occasions."

"Special? What's more special than your birthday?"

"Oh, you know, just those few occasions which are likely to pop up in the near future... when I'm out hunting... or when the Queen visits..."

"The Queen! And since when have you gone hunting?"

"I could take it up..."

"I see. But surely you could try it for just _one _day?"

"Hmmm... I suppose it couldn't hurt to wear it _just _this once..."

"Excellent!"

"See, Holmes, now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I suppose not. Although I think I caught sight of that Sidney Paget fellow amongst the crowds. I do hope he doesn't get the wrong impression..."

"Really? Well, anyway, now that you've had a chance to put it on, what's the opinion on your present?"

"...Although I do _very_ much appreciate the deerstalker, Watson, I believe that in future I shall stick to the more conventional bowler."

**A/N** I decided to write a cheerier one this time. Thanks again to all of you reviewers including Tapd0g, who I can't thank via PM. Also to Catherine Sparks, who I am currently holding an interesting Holmes discussion with. B-D


	8. Blink

Blink

Sometimes time can pass unbearably slowly. I sit here, in one of what Watson refers to as my "black moods", and though time is going no slower, it certainly _feels _like it. Waiting for a case, nothing to do, attempting to stave off this insufferable boredom with my violin and experiments, both offering only temporary relief. Not even the cocaine works, for it but briefly lifts the fog, hopefully dispelling it until an interesting case arrives.

When I tried explaining this feeling to Watson he said that he too disliked time passing by slowly, such as in the case of the Speckled Band, but more so when it passed in such a blur he found he couldn't remember certain details. I didn't have to ask what occasion it was he thought of. His hand had reached up absentmindedly to rub at his shoulder, and unconsciously he had shifted his weight to the opposite side. Afghanistan then.

It's amazing to think that something that so changed his life occurred in such a very short time. In one blink, he'd been changed forever and his career as a soldier had ended. Then he was on his way back from Afghanistan, back to England and, unknowingly, to me, and what to most would have been an unbearable lifestyle.

And all in just one blink.

**A/N** Once again, any suggestions, comments, criticisms or compliments more than welcome! Thank you to all those of you who've already reviewed, you guys really make my day! Also, does anyone know what Italy in the late 19th century was like? I know that not much occurred, but I have next to no idea of what it would be like living there back then. Any ideas?


	9. Broken

Broken

I despised waiting. Whether for a case, for information on a case, or, as I was now, for the conclusion of a case. The greatest and most important case of my life, which I had expected would be my last. Now it was drawing to a close and I had only one regret.

Watson. I bumped into him by accident, outside Adair's house, and was shocked by what I saw. It looked as though he'd never been married, almost exactly the same as when we'd first met. Back then he'd been terribly thin, pale underneath his yellow tan and his hazel eyes had been haunted by the terrors of war. He was thin, no tan to hide the absence of colour, whilst his hazel orbs were haunted by a different kind of terror now.

I'd heard of the death of his wife and baby via a telegram from my brother, but the short message hadn't been enough to impress upon me the sorrow he must be feeling. I was, at the time, on the run from foreign remnants of Moriarty's gangs, but that is no excuse. I should have returned immediately. For now it seems he is a broken man, robbed of his wife, child and greatest friend.

I just hope that his trust in me has not yet been broken.

**A/N** Thanks to my brother for betaing, will miss you when you're at Uni!


	10. Backside Don't read if squeamish

Backside

**WARNING: DO NOT READ IF SQUEAMISH!**

"Good morning, Lestrade."

"Good morning Mr Ho- Oh my God! What- What happened to-?"

"Ah yes, I see you've noticed that Watson's... here..."

"But what... What the HELL happened?"

"Well you see, we were on the return from an interesting case in Germany, when we decided to stop for the night. Unfortunately the man who offered us his hospitality was rather... different than what we'd originally imagined."

"MMPH!"

"Yes I- Yes I'm telling him Watson... Ow! Now, Watson, surely you don't want me to-"

"MMPH, MMPH!"

"Right. Yes, well we went to his home, and whilst Watson and he were talking I had a look around. Within a few minutes, I had managed to conclude that he'd used to separate Siamese twins and now..."

"Now..?"

"Now he sewed them back together."

"But... what did you do? What happened?"

"Well, it appeared that the few minutes in which it took me to deduce this, Watson had informed the man, that in fact it _would _be possible to create a Human Centipede by severing the ligaments in the knees, before conjoining the digestive tracts into one tract that ran through the body."

"And then he...?"

"Well... yes... Watson has certainly paid the ultimate price..."

"Mmmph!"

"... For as you can see he is now attached to my backside."

Yes well... Back to the normal posts!

**A/N** Don't judge me. Don't even read this. I mean seriously don't read this, unless you're my brother, because he's the one who forced me to do... _this._ I don't want to describe it, or explain it, because if you don't understand I _envy _you. I'm going to post this, for my brother's _very _belated birthday present, and then all you'll find will be normal fanfics, I promise. Just... don't judge me. Apart from typing it up I had nothing to do with this. Nothing. Nothing. *Mystic voice* _Nothing..._


	11. Baskerville

Baskerville

I came to visit once again,

The house upon the moor,

The rain poured down in drenching sheets,

I knocked upon the door.

* * *

It was a man, who answered,

One I'd not seen for many years,

In his eyes there seemed to be,

Remnants of glistening tears.

* * *

"Doctor Watson, do come in!"

Hysterical was he.

Yet not with shock or sadness,

But with pure unhindered glee.

* * *

I entered curious, wondering,

What was cause to all of this?

I followed to the dining room,

Hoped nothing was amiss.

* * *

There seated round the table,

Were people I could still recall,

Frankland, Mortimer, and more,

All gathered in this hall.

* * *

I greeted them all happily,

The Barrymores as well,

Before turning to Sir Henry,

Begged that his news he would tell.

* * *

"You see Doctor," said Sir Henry,

"A birth has taken place,

"A tiny, baby Baskerville,

"Come see his little face."

* * *

I followed to the bedroom,

(The one I realised, once, was mine),

A cot now lay beside the bed,

A sure and definite sign.

* * *

Within there was a baby,

With dark hair atop his head,

I gasped at who was next to him,

Mother lying on the bed.

* * *

"Surely not Miss Stapleton?"

Sir Henry answered with goodwill,

"No longer Beryl Stapleton,

But Beryl Baskerville!"

**A/N** Many thanks to mrspencil, who persuaded me to write a Sherlockonian poem! Sorry for the line breaks, the spaces I'd originally put in weren't staying there. If you want a good laugh, go on youtube and look up Wassup Holmes... you'll see why!


	12. Bets

Bets

_People on all sides, crushing against me, not hostile, yet not comforting or comfortable either. Distinctively uncomfortable in fact._

_I always end up here. No matter how hard I fight against it, I feel it pulling me, calling me, enticing me back, to here, or to somewhere else with the same purpose. Whether it's a dingy back alley place where you can hope to lose a few coins, or an aristocratic gentleman's club, where you can lose far more. _

_I've tried fighting it. Honestly I have. After I met Holmes, I kept myself indoors, trying to ignore the longing I felt in my heart, trying to keep myself busy with the problem of my eccentric flatmate. I dipped into my habit a few times, a little money here and there on a certain horse, but nothing too bad. I was proud of my progress and the money I'd saved._

_But now I'm back. After accompanying Holmes on his cases, managing to distract myself with the sheer thrill of running after an escaped convict, or with the comfortable silences that were broken only by a few soothing pieces played on his violin, I am back again. _

_Because I know deep inside me that nothing will ever give me such excitement, and indeed comfort, than hearing those three familiar words._

"Place your bets."

**A/N **Thank you to Tapd0g, my anonymous reviewer, and again to all my signed reviewers who I can PM. You guys really cheer me up after a bad day...


	13. Buckled

Buckled

He's disappointed. I can tell, despite his feeble attempts to hide it. Usually at the conclusion of a case, Holmes will fill in those last few details that the Yard, and on most occasions I, have not quite managed to grasp, before heading back to Baker Street for one of Mrs Hudson's delightful dinners, or perhaps even to Marcini's or Simpson's.

This time however it's different. He barely spares me a glance as he turns to tell the inspectors that their man has escaped, and I can feel the guilt bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

We'd chased him for about five minutes, and due to the adrenaline pumping through my veins I'd paid no attention to the shooting pains that had been sent up and down my injured leg. As I rounded the corner, Holmes beside me, I was trying desperately to avoid limping.

"You're under arrest!" Holmes yelled, and I raised my revolver to point it at him. Unfortunately, I paused, and in the tiniest fraction of time it took me to raise my revolver, he'd gone.

Holmes knows that I paused, and that the barrel of the gun had wavered, leaving enough time for the criminal to escape.

What he doesn't know is that it was not my resolve, but in fact my wounded leg, which had buckled.

**A/N **Hmmm... who thinks I should continue this?


	14. Bricks

Bricks

I have often considered myself an excellent judge of character, but in the case of Dr John H Watson, I was now unsure. Certainly he was an intriguing puzzle. After all, why would _anybody _particularly a recovering army veteran, choose to share lodgings with _me_?

I had been content to let that question lie unanswered, coming to depend on his warm companionship, along with his other more practical skills, such as his aim with a revolver.

Which was why it didn't make sense. Why would someone who has served in Maiwand have qualms about shooting a man? Of course Watson is compassionate, but for _this _man, this _monster_ who had taken the lives of so many? It didn't make sense.

Did he think for one moment that I was wrong, perhaps, that I'd made a mistake? Didn't he trust me? I wasn't sure. What I was sure of however, was that the time had come to part ways. After all, I couldn't have someone accompany me who was not reliable and who wouldn't follow my instructions to the letter.

I dislike being proven wrong, but I felt no pleasure when I heard Watson's pained, uneven limp on the pavement. In fact when the realisation that I was right finally came it was not unlike being hit by a tonne of bricks.

**A/N** Despite the sobriety of this fic, I have had a completely and totally awesome day today! No homework, winning free fudge, getting into a literary Quiz... The list goes on. So today (or most likely tomorrow as I am posting this rather late), be happy! Read fanfiction, write fanfiction, and... eat fudge. Lots of fudge. B-D

_Please review, whether to compliment or criticise... Even if it's just to point out a spelling or grammar error. And thanks again to all of my reviewers, including Tapd0g, who I cannot PM._


	15. Brochures

Brochures

I'd taken no notice of Holmes's sudden change in demeanour due to the pain in my leg, until suddenly he announced,

"You know Watson, I do believe it's time we went on holiday," I was shocked and indeed, confused. For Holmes to cheerily suggest a holidaywas unheard of, for he despised hours of idleness let alone days. As he offered me his arm to help me up the stairs I felt my face burn red and found I understood.

"I don't need your pity." I mumbled, embarrassed.

"Not pity Watson, more an apology."

"Apology?" I echoed in surprise, "Apology for what?"

"I jumped to the wrong conclusion." He said, and again I was caught off guard. He was admitting that he was wrong? This was certainly turning out to be a day full of surprises, "Unforgivable in a detective such as myself, whether for client, or fellow lodger, compensation must be given for such a grievous error. Now, what are your demands?"

"I- well I-" I stuttered unsure how to react. "I believed you mentioned something about a holiday?"

"Excellent!" he exclaimed, "Now we have only to decide where to go. Any ideas?" In the moment it took him to flash me a quick grin I knew that all had been forgiven, on both sides.

"I'll get the travel brochures."

**A/N** Thanks again reviewers and Tapd0g I too enjoy angst! B-D


	16. Background

Background

HLotD was smiling at her computer screen. Watson and Holmes were beginning to look worried.

"Why do you suppose she's smiling Holmes?" asked Watson uneasily, aware of what this particular "god" could do. "Not another chapter for her brother, surely?"

"I certainly hope not," said Holmes, rubbing gingerly at his posterior, "Not after last time." Watson shuddered, leaning closer to read what was written on the screen.

"What does it say Watson?" Holmes asked, fearful, "Is it... another chapter?"

"No," came the reply. Holmes let out a sigh.

"Well, what is it then?"

"Reviews," said Watson, surprised. "Or rather, a reply to a reply of a reply of a review..."

"Oh... well, what does this reply to a reply to a- What does this reply say?"

"It appears to be from Mrs Pencil, suggesting she write more of our holiday."

"More?"

"Yes... although I suppose that first she'll want the opinions of her readers... whether to continue as a 221B, or indeed start a new fic altogether... You don't suppose we're being used, do you Holmes?

"Used Watson?"

"Yes... in replacement to an author's note? I suddenly feel the inexplicable need to say that her 100th reviewer will be allowed to give the next 221B word and plot..."

HLotD typed on, and eventually Holmes and Watson's chatter faded into the background.

**A/N** Honestly Watson would I do that to you? Although after chapter 10, I'm not sure...


	17. Burned

Burned

War is like fire. It spreads. It destroys. It _burns._ If you're lucky, the fire will be extinguished, and if you're incredibly, _unbelievably _lucky, what it leaves behind will be better and stronger than whatever was there before.

However, more often than not, this is not the case. More often than not, the fire should never have been lit; more often than not it continues spreading, destroying, _burning,_ thousands, if not millions, of innocent people, for years to come.

I was burned. Just like fire, the war has caused me wounds that have never truly been healed. Sometimes my wounds are painful, sometimes I catch Holmes staring in surprise at the blemished skin surrounding them at the Turkish baths and sometimes I wonder whether it would not have been better to have been destroyed completely by the fire, along with those hundreds, thousands, _millions_ of people. Sometimes I think that surely it would have been better to have been turned to ash, rather than have been left as this scarred shell of a human being, who with the slightest change of weather, is forced to hobble to and fro like a man more than twice his age.

Then I think of my comrades, who _were_ turned to ash. I think of them and realise that I am not so badly burned_._

**A/N**: In regards to the "Brochures" continuation, please take a look at the poll on my profile. Thanks again to all of my reviewers. Anonymous and Tapd0g, my two unsigned reviewers as well.


	18. Below

Below

It is indeed an unusual feeling for your body to be completely at odds with the environment surrounding it. Around me, the frost was glittering dangerously on paths laden with snow, yet I myself felt uncomfortably hot, beads of perspiration running down my face as I sprinted after the man that Scotland Yard had failed (yet again) to successfully apprehend.

He was hardly a dangerous man, his slight build one of the main ways I had managed to identify him, along with his unusually small shoe size. Unfortunately this also meant he'd been able to flee like a startled rabbit once he'd realised his double life as a thief had been unearthed, and I finally understood how he had managed to escape from so many in the past.

We were nearing the edge of the Thames now and he faltered at the risk of running onto a frozen river so I put on a burst of speed. He must have decided to take the risk, because within the next second he had shot out onto the slippery surface, I following, my mind so focussed that I didn't notice the tiny fissures appearing in the ice.

Suddenly a loud _CRACK _rent the air and the last thing I heard was Watson frantically calling my name before tumbling into the freezing depths below.

_TBC…_

**A/N** Thank you again all my reviewers! Oh yes, and I have finally discovered how to embed polls onto my profile, so please take a look as one of them relates directly to the continuation of Brochures.


	19. Blackguard

Blackguard

_Cold, so cold. I was sinking, falling, trapped in it, desperately trying to escape, but unsure which way was up and losing air fast. The temperature was inhibiting my ability to think and as I drifted within the darkness of my mind, my incoherent thoughts were that I was going to die here, absent of the great brain that made me so famous._

_I hoped that Watson wouldn't be angry at me for risking my life so dangerously a second time, but most of all I hoped he wouldn't feel guilty, for being unable to save me. I would never know, for even now I could feel myself being claimed by the darkness._

"Holmes!" Someone was shouting. "Holmes, for God's sake, please!" Or perhaps it was pleading... "You can't do this to me, not again!" _Yes_, I mused, _definitely pleading_. And the voice was familiar. "Breathe!"

I obeyed the commanding voice, taking a great, shuddering breath. Above me, I heard a relieved sigh.

After being covered with something delightfully warm, I forced open my eyes, and watched as Watson swam after a dark shape thrashing about in the river. I closed my eyes, listening to the familiar footsteps of Lestrade approaching and could only wonder why anyone would choose to risk their health, (and indeed their life), on such a despicable blackguard.

_TBC..._

**A/N **I'm a bit worried about whether this chapter turned out okay. I knew what I wanted to write, and that blackguard would be the word, but then I kept changing it, and shortening it, and now no matter what I put it sounds weird in my head, because the word blackguard no longer sounds like a real word, after saying and thinking it so much. I also feel it may be a bit confusing to read, but hopefully if it is then everything will be explained next chapter. However, if it really makes no sense then please tell me and I'll try to edit it when blackguard no longer sounds strange and unusual.


	20. Blue

Blue

Upon running into the scene, I was met immediately by several worrying sights.

The first was Mr Holmes, soaked through and sandwiched between Doctor Watson's warmer articles of clothing, his jumper and overcoat, shivering. Eyelids half closed, slate-grey orbs beneath glassy, I may have thought him drowned if not for his heaving chest.

I was stopped from rushing immediately to his aid by another man I recognised. It was Doctor Watson, in only his shirtsleeves, working desperately over a small, dishevelled man who lay unmoving in the snow. Drawing closer I realised, with a jolt, that it was the man Mr Holmes had declared the perpetrator.

Behind me, I heard Constable Perkins arrive with the reinforcements I'd sent for, and entrusting them to the care of Mr Holmes, I hastened to the Doctor's side.

"Doctor Watson?" I enquired, watching as even now he attempted to find a pulse on the clearly dead man. "Doctor Watson... I think he's-"

"No!" He shook his head, "I.. I can still-"

"Doctor," I interrupted him gently, "even you can't bring people back from the dead." He let out a sigh, and nodded.

"Y- you're right... of c-course." He forced out between chattering teeth. As he stood to follow Mr Holmes into the cab, I was alarmed to see that his lips were tinged with blue.

_TBC…_


	21. Be

Be

"_...thought it best to bring them both-"_

"_Of course but what in heaven's name happen-?"_

"_Chasing a criminal... fell through the ice-"_

"_...Doctor Watson-?"_

"_...jumped after..."_

"_...put them both in Mr Holmes's room... push another bed in..."_

When I woke up, the first thing I was aware of was the comfortable warmth that enveloped my body, so comfortable that I was tempted to drift back into sleep. But the second thing I was aware of was an unpleasant sound coming from somewhere to my right. I slit open my eyes, and caught sight of Watson, who was moaning, sheets wrapped tightly around him on a makeshift bed in the corner.

"Watson," I hissed, aware that it was late, and that Mrs Hudson was probably asleep, "Watson!" He stirred slightly but did not wake.

"Holmes?" he mumbled, brow furrowed in confusion, "but I thought you were...?" His face broke into a smile, though not for long. "But then why... why didn't you tell me?"

My stomach gave a jolt, as I realised he was dreaming of my return.

"Don't worry Watson, just go back to sleep. I'm here."

With a sigh, he rolled over, still mumbling disjointed phrases and words. Ever so gently I straightened out his covers, reflecting on what an awful friend I had so far proven myself to be.

**A/N** I'm sorry I've left this for so long, I have no excuses, especially after so many wonderful reviews. I do have to ask though, one more install for this series of ice stuff, or do you think this is an alright ending? Thanks everyone who's sticking with this story, you guys make my day. Oh and also, I thought I ought to mention, I always stick with the Microsoft word count opposed to the FanFiction one, so if for whatever reason any of these have been over or under 221 words, I'm really sorry. I do think Microsoft is the more reliable though. B-D


	22. Boswell

Boswell

"You were both extremely lucky not to catch pneumonia," I rolled my eyes behind Doctor Yaxley's back, eliciting a laugh from the other, sicker physician buried beneath a pile of blankets. Yaxley narrowed his eyes, and Watson hastily disguised his chuckle as an unconvincing cough.

"Thank you Doctor," I said, saving Watson from further embarrassment. The Doctor gave a nod before making a swift exit. The front door slammed beneath us, and I stated, with a deadpan expression,

"I don't think he quite thought we were taking him seriously." This time when Watson dissolved into laughter, the resulting coughs were not faked. I hurried over with a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully.

"S- Sorry!" He finally managed to gasp, cheeks rosy both with laughter and effort. I felt guilt tug at me once again.

"Watson," I said, placing the glass on his bedside table, and returning to my own sickbed. "I just wanted to say… well… thank you. For jumping after me. I shouldn't have-"

"Holmes," he interrupted my awkward apology with a raised hand. "No thanks are necessary. I'm sure you would have done the same for me."

"I don't think I would have much choice in the matter."

"And why's that?"

"Because you've conclusively proved a former statement of mine; _I would be lost without my Boswell._"

**A/N** Thank you again all my reviewers including the anonymous insideouttuoedisni. B-D


	23. Bedlam

Bedlam

Holmes had solved another case. It was short and less challenging than he would have preferred. As soon as it was over, Watson had seen Holmes's eyes straying to the draw which contained the dreaded Moroccan case. Watson asked Holmes, as a doctor, as a friend, not to resort to such drastic measures for a little while, long enough until Mrs Hudson had returned from visiting her older sister at least. Holmes reluctantly accepted.

On most days, Watson got up at 8:30, got dressed and gathered his various belongings, when at 8:45 he would come downstairs to make a quick breakfast, usually of toast, eat his share and put the remainder on the table for Holmes when he awoke. He wasn't aware that Holmes was already wide awake and busy recording his daily schedule. This meant that on the morning which Mrs Hudson was to return from her sister's house, Watson was in no way prepared for what Holmes had done.

Unsuspecting, Watson laid the pieces of bread upon the grill, lit the gas, turned briefly to pick up an egg to boil and when he turned back the oven was in flames.

Holmes had sprinkled it in aluminium powder.

When Mrs Hudson returned that day she found 221B Baker Street in a state that could only be described as bedlam.

**A/N** This is the prize for Reflekshun, my 100th reviewer, who's prompt, was "...suppose Holmes has no cases to occupy his mind. He cannot use drugs, for he has promised Watson that he would not. Nobody said that he couldn't relieve his boredom by pranking the good doctor. The last word is 'Bedlam'."

Sorry for the delay Reflekshun!

Also, aluminium powder is flammable, and I apologise if I've made some awful chemical error, the internet is my guide! Ultimate fact of the day: I have left 221 signed reviews! WOOH! Thanks everyone who reads these, and especially those who tell me what they think. Thanks Poseidon – God of the Seas, for betaing. B-D


	24. Bored

Bored

_The light from the moon filtered down through the layers of thick cloud onto the city streets of London. All was silent. But for-_

"Watson."

_-but for-_

"Watson."

_-_but _for-_

"Watson!"

I sighed.

"_Yes,_ Holmes?"

"What are you doing?"

"Writing."

"Ah." He sniffed disdainfully. "For the Strand?"

"For the Irregulars. It's-" I broke off, remembering who I was talking to. "Never mind. What are _you _doing Holmes?"

"Very little."

"No cases?" I asked, a little surprised.

"None," he responded sourly.

"That's surprising, with Halloween so close."

"Hm." There was a brief silence, punctuated only by the scratchings of my pen. "So this… _story…_ What's it about?"

I looked up with a smile, sure he was joking. As brown eyes met grey however, I realised I was wrong.

"Good God," I murmured. "You must be bored if you're asking after my writing." Holmes's lips twitched. "It's a Halloween story. And it's far harder writing it than it was telling it last night."

"Would it help to have someone to read to?"

"Yes but …" I trailed into a stunned silence as he leant back in his armchair and lit his pipe. In the manner I had seen him address so many of his clients, he addressed me,

"In that case – please begin. And before you ask; yes – I really am _that_ bored."

**A/N **Happy Halloween everyone!


	25. Bliss

Bliss

They say bliss is ignorant. As I watch my greatest friend destroy himself, slowly but surely, I am struck by that thought more than ever. Is it right of me to deny something which makes him so happy? Yes, it is. His bliss is not happiness, but ignorance – and ignorant is something he would never wish to become.

Yet still I am forced to watch on as his pale hand wraps around the shining Moroccan case. He opens it with something vaguely akin to trepidation; he is looking forward to this. I wonder which he enjoys more; the sensation of the drug, pumping its way through his bloodstream, or the lead up to it – the excitement. I can't bring myself to care.

I have argued with him. Tried to show him how little control he has. How with each injection he wriggles further and further into the grasp of addiction. He knows he is deluding himself. I see it in his eyes, whilst he insists that whilst he could stop any time he wanted to, he chooses not to.

He chooses nothing. He'll find that out, one day. I will be there when he does.

For now though the needle plunges into his arm. He sinks back into his chair and the expression on his face is that of pure bliss.

**A/N: **Greetings all! I have embarked on the adventure which is NaNoWriMo. Have any of you?  
_To Anony9 - _Thank you so much! Your review made me smile all day! I will try to fill your prompts, though I'm not too sure when. Again, thank you! *Cyber hug*


	26. Body

Body

Shortly after I returned from my three year hiatus, and Watson had moved back into Baker Street, a case came to us. It was an unexceptional case, simple, very little deduction required at all. It was only due to Watson that I took it on.

As soon as our client had entered the living room I knew her story, but still I listened as she told us of her bullying husband, who she knew to be a criminal and suspected to be a murderer. I was about to suggest she go to the police, when I caught sight of Watson's face.

He was staring at the woman with an expression of immeasurable sorrow. Not just pity, but more… longing. It was then that I took note of her appearance – blonde hair scraped back into a modest bun, and blue eyes which shone with tears. Feeling Watson's own, pleading gaze fall upon me, I assured the woman that we would help her any way we could.

When we arrived at her house the next morning, however, the door was unlocked. We went inside and saw her, golden hair halo like around her face and blue eyes staring blankly up at us. Her neck was broken.

It was the only time I had ever seen Watson flinch at the sight of a body.

**A/N: **Wow, two in two days… don't you feel loved? No? Darn. Well, leave a review anyway. Please?

_To Anony9: _Does this class as Watson angst?


	27. Been

Been

Crowds of soldiers, old and young alike were getting off the train and soon the station was filled with reuniting families. I looked past them all, straining to catch a glimpse of one soldier in particular.

The last time we had seen each other had been, quite literally, years ago. Before the war began. And before he, foolhardy hero that he is, went overseas to help. I wonder if during his time away he has changed from the man I once knew. But of course, he has experienced war before.

We lost touch after he enlisted. My mind became consumed by the numerous, if relatively easy, political cases being thrown my way. And if not for Mycroft, I wouldn't even have known Watson had been sent back to England. I now hoped to give him a nice surprise– just as soon as I caught sight of him.

There! Stepping onto the platform, looking utterly exhausted, was Watson.

"Watson!" I called. "Watson!" He didn't hear me, so I pushed my way through the dense crowds, apologising at every other step, but growing undoubtedly closer. "Watson!"

He turned back. He did indeed look shocked to see me there – but not nearly as shocked as I now felt. I stared. Stared in horror at the empty space where, once, his left arm had been.

**A/N **I don't know where this came from, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone, so sorry if it's not very good. I'm also quite sure Watson would have been too old to fight (though maybe not), but I am kind of using poetic license to assume that he wasn't too old to go over as medical help. Thank you all of my lovely reviewers – you guys rock my socks. B-)


	28. Becoming

Becoming

"_So why do you put up __with__ him?"  
"Because I'm desperate, that's why. Because __Sherlock __Holmes__ is __a __great__ man,__ and I think __one__ day—if we're very, very lucky—__he__ might even __be__ good __one__."_

_Sherlock – A Study in Pink_

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, I disliked him. Disliked only because hate is too strong a word for someone you barely know. I soon discovered, however, that my first impressions were well founded.

Each and every time I met him from then on, he was as insufferably arrogant and annoyingly brilliant as the last. He delighted in mocking the incompetence of myself and my colleagues, all the while retaining the cold, expressionless mask of an automaton. His only redeeming feature was that he _could _solve cases – something my fellow inspectors chose to ignore. I did not, but with each barbed insult, the idea became more tempting.

But then Doctor Watson showed up at the Jefferson Hope case. And suddenly there was someone there to roll his eyes at Holmes's rude behaviour, apologise for it even. Time went by and Holmes's mask began to slip.

He laughed more – not the cruel laughter I was used to, the laughter at another's (often my) expense - but warm laughter. The sort of laughter that can only come from friendship.

And there it was. Sherlock Holmes had a friend. Something no one, most particularly him, had ever imagined. And his friend was helping him to be a better person.

I didn't like Sherlock Holmes. But I did like the man he was fast becoming.

**A/N **This is dedicated to sonofafluffymuffin – she suggested the word. I know a lot of you were expecting a sequel to Been, but I decided to leave it for now. Maybe when I've finished this series I'll expand on a few of these. Thanks again, wonderful reviewers. Cyber hugs for all!

_To Anony9: _I'm glad you appreciated the review. And don't worry, I totally understand about being busy. I'm currently procrastinating on a history essay. Thanks for your lovely reviews; it makes me so happy that you like what I've written.


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